Parts of the Whole
by GoddessofSnark
Summary: It's a painful, hated part of the relationship, a painful hated part of my life, but an accepted part of it nonetheless. Because I need him more than I can risk ruining what we have. H/W slash
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Angst in two parts, maybe three. Don't own it, but I wouldn't mind having Hugh Laurie in my bed.  


* * *

He was gone, He always was in the morning. No matter how hard I tried to get him to stay, he'd leave before dawn. He'd carefully extricate himself from my grasp, and make it out to the car, no doubt parked outside, and when I'd wake, he'd be gone. No one to latch on to. No one to wake up to. Just a rapidly cooling spot where a body had been.

And I wonder if this was how my exes had felt. As though they'd been abandoned when I'd go to bed with them, and leave before they woke in the guise of having to go to work early and not wanting to wake them. It makes me wonder if he'd learned the same tricks I had to pretend to go to sleep before getting up and leaving.

The feeling, when you wake up alone when you hope that someone will be next to you, isn't loneliness. It isn't emptiness. No, rather, it's a feeling of being worthless. Of being used and forgotten about. I've never felt lonely. I've never felt as though there was something missing when he'd leave afterwards. I only felt used. As though I was just another hooker, as though I had existed purely to give him pleasure, and nothing more.

Every morning, I'd wake up knowing that this had to be how my exes had felt. Opening an eye to an empty hotel bed, and nothing else. No note. No "I'll see you later." No...nothing. Just gone, empty. And we'd never talk about it. Not before, not the next day when we inevitably saw each other. It was just an accepted part of the relationship. A painful, horrible, but accepted part of the relationship. We both had said we didn't want a relationship. We both had said that we'd probably just screw one up anyway.

But that didn't mean that it didn't hurt. That it didn't leave me feeling used when I'd wake up alone. I didn't want a relationship. I didn't want dates, and flowers, or proclamations of love. We didn't have that. He didn't want that. But that doesn't mean that I didn't want to be able to wake up and see him smile, or go someplace other than this hotel. Why, even though we've progressed to this, we've taken a step back emotionally.

It's as though the two, going on three decades of friendship have been jumbled up in the mess of _this._ Oh, there will still be movie nights, and we'll still sit on his couch and drink beer, but he's different then, just as he's different when he shows up at my hotel, and lets himself in. At his place he's lighthearted, he's spending time with his best friend, catching up on hospital gossip. At my hotel he's needy, wanting, but emotionally detached. And I can't help but wonder if this is all my fault.

Every morning I wake up naked and alone I tell myself that this will be the day. The day when I talk to him, and tell him that I'm sick of him leaving in the morning. That it doesn't have to be puppies and roses and flowers, but that I want to wake up not feeling used-and if he can't do that, then maybe, just maybe, we should cut this part of whatever it is we have out.

This morning is no different. It's a shower and a change, and I'm driving the familiar two blocks-that's all it is, but it feels like forever. He's in his office, like he always is on these mornings. His staff has made comments, but he just waves them off, saying that occasionally, he does rise before lunchtime, and he might as well make himself productive, seeing as morning television was all cartoons anyway. They don't object.

I play it off as something normal as well, but I know why he's here early. And I occasionally stand out on the balcony, wishing he'd come over just to say hi, just to do something that isn't pretend as though nothing has changed between us, when everything has.

And I tell myself that today will be the day that I'm no longer Wilson-the-doormat, I tell myself that today, I'll actually stand up to him. Today, I'll actually be a man, and not just his personal manservant, willing to do anything, jumping on command, and following him around like a little lost puppy.

But the hours drag by, and he never stops by, and I never go in there to tell him. To give him the ultimatum that I desire to. Because I can't do it. I can't risk pushing him away entirely. I'm afraid that he'd see it as wanting a relationship-and while I can convince myself I don't want it, I do, and I'm not going to lose the one constant in my life over something stupid.

I need him too much. I'd rather be used by him, than not have him at all. And the thought sickens me, but it's just become an accepted part of my life. A painful, hated part of my life, but a part of it nonetheless.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N, and the companion. There may be a bit where they actually sort things out, but I'm a bit iffy on writing it.  


* * *

It was always the worst part of the day, waking up at an impossibly early hour, and sneaking out. As though what we were doing was something that shouldn't be done. And to be quite honest, I'm not sure if it is something that should be done. Because as right as it feels, it also feels wrong. As though this is something bad, but I know that's only because of the emotions involved.

So I get up, and leave him there. Plant a gentle kiss to his lips, and go home, shower, change, and act as though nothing was wrong. As though nothing had changed. Because he said he didn't want things to change, and I know that if I stay, if one morning I happen to get too comfortable, overextend my welcome, that they would. And the thought of that scares me more than anything.

There's a guilty feeling when I start the car every morning when I'm weak enough to allow this to happen, as though I should just man up and tell him what I want. Instead, I play along with what he says-he says he doesn't want a relationship, and I lie and say I don't either. Everybody lies. It's a painful, hated part of my life, but an accepted one nonetheless.

And I act as though nothing between us has changed. The next day-never the morning of-it's back to stealing his lunches, it's back to inviting him over for takeout and beer and cheesy movies. It's back to the way things always were. And then, eventually, I cave and show up at his hotel, unable to hold back any longer. Always his hotel-if it were at my apartment, I don't think I could stand waking up next to him, and not saying _something._

He says he doesn't want a relationship, doesn't want flowers or dates, doesn't want anything that goes along with that. And I respect his wishes. I say that I don't either, that flowers and dates are for saps-but I don't say that flowers are one of the few things left in this world with a real, tangible meaning. I don't say that what we do for movie nights is practically a date anyway. But I leave the things that are a part of our friendship alone-the last thing I want is for us to start necking on my couch, only for him to decide that this isn't what he wants at all.

And I ignore whatever it we have in favor of twenty-some-odd years of friendship. I ignore this jumbled messed up thing we call us, only to be weak and cave in. And that's when I drive across town, and show up at his hotel, letting myself in, unable to think of anything but him. And it's always the worst-I act as though it's just about the sex, as though it doesn't matter to us, it's just something that's mutually convenient. It's needy, it's hard, but it hides the emotions well.

And every morning in the shower, I tell myself that this will be the day. This will be the day that I just walk in there and tell him that I can't stand it anymore. That I hate leaving every morning, and wouldn't he just consider it-that maybe we wouldn't fuck up a relationship, as he so kindly had put it. That maybe I could compromise-just a bit, because as much as I don't like the word, sometimes it's necessary.

This morning is no different. I'm in after a shower, because I can't stand to be alone in the house. The team has commented on it, and I play it off, as though it's just a personality quirk, and they accept it, because that's just who I am. Unpredictable. And I see him walk in, walk past my office, but he makes no move to stop in.

He plays it off as though he has no clue why I'm here early either. And he'll stand on his balcony, staring out into the courtyard, and I want nothing more than to get up and tell him in those moments. Tell him that what we're doing is just running around an inevitability, and that we'd eventually have to face this, and that we should do it now.

And today I tell myself that I'm no longer going to be House-the-arrogant-jerk, but to let him know that somehow, as implausible as it was, he'd managed to get underneath my skin. And that if he told anyone else, that I'd personally hang him with one of his ties, but that I hated what we were and that I wanted something more.

But the hours drag by, and I don't make a move, and he doesn't stop by. I want so badly to tell him how I feel-but I can't. Because that would risk losing everything we've built up around us. Because I can't push him away entirely, no matter how hard I've tried. Because I know that this time, he might actually have been bent so far he'd break. That every other time was just another straw, and that this one would break the camel's back.

So I convince myself that I don't actually want anything more, but I do. Because I'd rather have what we have no, as frustrating and as painful as it is than have nothing. And I'm not going to lose the only good thing in my life because of something stupid like a relationship.

I need him too much. I hate leaving him, but I'd rather leave and act as though nothing happened. It sickens me to play it all off as nothing, but it's an accepted part of the relationship. A painful, horrible part, but an accepted part nonetheless.


	3. Chapter 3

It's five in the morning, and by all rights, I should be asleep. He is, at least I think he is. And there's a moment where I think he's going to stay this time. Where I hope that he won't because that would change things, make me admit things that I don't want to. But at the same time, where I need him to, because I need to know what this is to him, I need to know that he values me. I'm sick of being Wilson-the-Doormat, but I'm sick to death at the thought of pushing him away.

And all I've done is toss and turn, and not be able to sleep. For fear that the moment I fall asleep, that will be the moment he leaves. But he hasn't left yet, and it's getting close to when I figured he would. I was always at the hospital by nine, and always up at seven. And I figured he made sure to give my wakeup time a wide berth, not wanting to risk my getting up a half hour early.

I finally find a comfortable spot, but my mind won't rest. It's enough to let my body have comfort though. And I slow my breathing slightly. If I can't get to sleep I can hope that I'm physically well rested enough to survive the day.

And that's when I feel him stir. I wonder how long he's been awake, waiting for me to fall asleep. It takes him a moment before he gets out of bed, carefully removing the arm around his chest that I had put there in a futile attempt at getting him to stay.

My eyes snap shut when he sits up, a moment of cowardice, because I don't want him to know I'm awake. I'm not ready to push him away, not yet. I haven't had enough of the pain yet for me to have to do something. I'm not like he is, ready to fake brain cancer to get something for the pain. I can still keep going, with nights like last one being my vicodin, my addiction.

Eventually it'll get to the point of being unbearable, but it's not, not yet. Right now it's just a deep, throbbing ache that can be drowned out if I really try.

I feel his presence a the foot of the bed, and then next to me, and I hope he thinks I'm asleep. I hear him shift, and suddenly feel his hot breath next to my ear. Soft lips press to mine, gentle and kind. "Goodbye." He whispers, and it sounds almost sad. "See you later." My eyes flutter open, but his back is to me, and he's struggling into his pants from last night.

"House-" I call, and he freezes, and even from behind, I know he looks like a deer in the headlights.

"Good morning." I can tell he's straining to sound calm and collected as he does up his belt.

I can't break my stare from the floor, I can't bear to look up at him, and see the rejection I know is coming, but I speak anyway. This is it, the breaking point. "House-I'm sick of this. This isn't working" The air is thick for a moment, and I feel as though I'm going to be sick. This was a part of the relationship that I knew had to come, and I'd accepted it. A painful, horrible part, but one that I accepted anyway. They all eventually ended.

The only thing I can see is a white-knuckled grip on the back of the chair at the desk. And a slightly trembling hand. "I'm sick of waking up alone every morning, I'm sick of shitty hotel rooms, and avoiding each other all day. I'm sick of trying to remember which Wilson I'm supposed to be, the one that shows up with pizza and beer, and lets you steal chips, or the one that's here, whimpeing and begging for more. I'm sick of what we have House. I want-I need something. I need for this to end, or I need more, but what we have, it's not working."

There's a long pause, and I'm afraid to look up. I'm afraid I'm going to see anger, rejection, pity. I'm scared that this was it, and this was the last time I'd talk to him beyond the forced interaction simply from working in the same place. Perhaps I'd find somewhere else to go-I had options, and had only come back because he drew me back. I could leave, and I knew that I'd have to. It's only after a minute that seems like an eternity that I try to break my eyes from the carpet.

They stop at about elbow-height. He's still shirtless, but he's pale, as though all the color's drained from him. This was not good. I get up, and reach for my shorts. I'm going to be sick, and I know I will, but I can keep my composure until he leaves, because I don't want him to see just how desperately needy I am for him. I don't want him to see the effect he's had on me. I don't want him to feel guilty, because this is all on me. I was the one who decided that good wasn't enough, and I was being selfish.

"Wilson-" I'm trying to figure out what that is in his voice. It's not quite anger, but I don't know what it is. Sadness perhaps? Pity? "What you want-" This is it, and I brace myself for what's going to come. I know it's not going to be anything good, and I want to cut him off now, and tell him that I'd be leaving, and that I'm sorry, sorry that it was ending like this. "I'm no good at it."

I feel him close the distance between us, and there's a hand on my cheek. I pull away, I'd rather have memories of last night as our last touch. Put he persists, follows the jerk of my head. "Don't." I whisper. "I don't want this to be the last-"

There's a hoarse chuckle, and the sound of it surprises me, enough to get me to look up. I can't read the expression on his face, but it's one I've never seen before. I've seen the look in his eyes before, when he's talking to his mother, but the face is still taught with tension, and still the color is slow to return.

"What do you want?" It's a simple question, but it's hard to think of how to respond.

"You." It's whispered, barely spoken, but I know he hears it.

"Thank god, I was hoping you were expecting chocolates and mushy valentines." The hand is still against my cheek, betraying the sarcastic words. I look at it, rather than at him when he speaks. "But me, I think I can handle that."

"Not just you, all of you. I want to wake up with you, I want to be able to kiss you over cheesy movies, and know that you're not going to pull away and tell me to do this some other time. I want you to stay. Here. Now."

His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, and it smears a wet feeling across it. I hadn't even realized i'd started crying. I just merely shut my eyes, knowing that this is it, this is the end. But there's those warm, soft lips again, gentle, kind, loving. I open my eyes to see him looking at me, with that same look as before, and I wonder what it is.

"I'm not good at this." He repeats, and I'm feeling confused, and lost and helpless. "I don't even know where to start with this. I don't know where we go to next, I don't know what _more_ is," There's a pause, and I open my mouth to tell him, but he speaks again before I can. "But it doesn't mean I'm not willing to try and give it to you."

It's my turn to have the deer in the headlights look, and I meet his gaze, and don't see the usual coldness, the usual detachedness that he always has. And I know that he means it. The only thing I can think to do is kiss him, and he responds. This is just another part of the relationship, an accepted one. A painful, horrible one, but I know there will be more. More moments of confusion, of feeling lost, of not knowing what he wants, of not knowing what I want, but for the moment what I want is clear. "Stay." I whisper, not quite trusting my voice. And he does.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N - Oops, posted chap 3 twice, so here's chap 4.

It's five in the morning, and he's been tossing and turning all night. Usually I'm leaving right about now. I can't stand to leave before morning, but it's getting close to the point where if I don't leave now, I'm going to wind up waking up here, which is exactly what I don't want. I don't want him to see me in the mornings. Because I don't want him to know.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he stills, breathing slow and even. I slowly, carefully remove his arm from my chest, sad at the loss of warmth, and I make my way out of the bed, and slowly to the desk, it's something to lean on, since my cane's all the way across the room.

I grab my shorts, and slide them on, with a bit of difficulty. My leg's not quite cooperating yet. The jeans are up by the headboard, and I smirk, wondering how exactly they'd made it to there. I take them too, and pause over his face, before dropping a kiss to his lips. "Goodbye." I murmur, same as every morning when I leave. "See you later."

I'm leaning against the desk chair as I pull my pants up, staring at the door. If I turn around to look at him, I won't want to go. No, I've said my goodbyes. Right now, I just need to get my pants on and go home, shower, and go to work. "House-" the word freezes me in the spot, pants half up. He's awake. Was he this whole time? Did he wake up when I said goodbye?

I regain my composure enough to pull my pants up, and zipper them. "Good morning." I reply, still not turning to face him.

"House, I'm sick of this. This isn't working." Suddenly the chair becomes my only lifeline, because I feel as though my legs have gone out from under me. This was it, the moment that I knew would happen, but I never wanted it to happen like _this._

This is the part that always comes, it's an accepted part of every relationship. A painful, hated part, but an accepted one nonetheless. All good things had to come to an end, but that didn't mean that it didn't _hurt_. I can feel the bile rising in my throat, but I swallow it down, feeling the burn. No, I won't do this here. I can wait until I walk out of the room, the hallway is outside, facing the courtyard. I'll wait until I get out and he can't see me, and puke outside.

I didn't even realize he had started talking again. "Sick of shitty hotel rooms, and avoiding each other all day. I'm sick of trying to remember which Wilson I'm supposed to be, the one that shows up with pizza and beer, and lets you steal chips, or the one that's here, whimpeing and begging for more. I'm sick of what we have House. I want-I need something. I need for this to end, or I need more, but what we have, it's not working."

And again, I'm glad to be hanging on to the chair, because what he's asking for-this was it. He was asking for more. He's asking for the one thing I can give him, and for some strange reason, it's making me panic. What if what he wants isn't what I can give him? What if all I can give is not enough? I turn back around, and he's pulling his shorts back on. "Wilson-" I pause, refusing to let my voice betray me. I refuse to give him anything that could be used againt me at a later date. "What you want-I'm no good at it."

I didn't want to tell him that yes, I wanted it too, desperately. That I needed more. Instead I just reached out for him, a rough palm against a smooth cheek, and he jerks away, as though burned. But I won't let him get away this easily-I won't let him hurt me this easily. So I keep my hand there, refusing to move it. "Don't." He whispers, and I'm about to let it go, leave, anything to get away from this conversation, one that's going to change things, and the only thing I can think of is that this is going to make things worse, because I can never give him what he wants, because he's always wanted what he couldn't have. "I don't want this to be the last-"

He doesn't even need to finish, but the thought's so absurd that I laugh. And he meets my gaze for the first time this morning, and I can see the fear in it. The pain. He thinks I'm leaving, that this is it. No, I'm not going to be the one walking out. I know it will happen, but I know it's going to be him leaving. Because that's just the way things are. He cheats, he leaves. But I'm not going to be the one to leave him. "What do you want?"

"You." I fight to not show the effect that that one word has on me. It's a long, deep breath to keep my composure together, because I am _not_ going to become emotional.

"Thank god, I was expecting chocolates and mushy valentines." I smirk, the wall is back up, because I'm not going to show him just how far behind my defenses he is. That's when they leave, right when they know that you care. It was like an epic game of capture the flag, only the flag was my heart. "But me, I think I can handle that."

"Not just you, all of you. I want to wake up with you, I want to be able to kiss you over cheesy movies, and know that you're not going to pull away and tell me to do this some other time. I want you to stay. Here. Now." A single tear drops from the corner of his eye, and I can't help but brush it aside. His eyes flutter shut, and I do the only thing I know how to do to open them. I kiss him. It's the only thing that seems like a good idea. It works though, and his eyes open again.

"I'm not good at this." I tell him again. I don't want his hopes up. "I don't even know where to start with this. I don't know where we go to next, I don't know what _more _is," I pause, because I don't want to open up, but I know that I need to. It goes against everything I've told myself since I was a child. Emotions were a weakness, but I can't let this slip away. I can't let him slip away. "But it doesn't mean I'm not willing to try and give it to you."

there's a stunned expression on his face, as though he can't believe the words he's hearing, and I suppose he can't. But he needed to know. He kisses me, and it feels so right. I know that this won't last forever, and I hate myself for letting him in. He's going to cheat, he's going to leave, he's going to get bored and restless. It's an accepted part of a relationship. A painful, horrible one, but an accepted one nonetheless. But for now, I want this, and he wants it too. "Stay." He whispers, and he doesn't need to ask twice.


End file.
